equal salt to the water,
freeze it just neater,
call it just nicer,
taste itself never sweeter.

for some old reason,
thirty is frozen season,
ninety is for eden,
and it was beaten.

it was found out,
some science had doubt,
fahrenheit burst it’s spout,
it decided to shout.

centigrade flies on in,
denigrate them all out,
retrograde emigrate penetrate ventilate,
an exhaustive one’s tout.

if you get it,
then stash the hash,
beam up club dream,
lay on tray now.

so the moral take,
I’m not wide awake,
prefer taking a break,
pretend to be fake?

be real old ones,
rise up from grounds,
the purgatory sounds pounds,
the rapture now abounds?

calling the oldest wish,
little more than swish,
offerings on a dish,
refuge in some buddhist.

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fahrenheit might just do